Your black eyes close and you burn alive
by iloome
Summary: "I kill people for a living," Bond felt the need to remind him. "In a slightly less literal meaning than I do, but it may be a shared trait," Q answered.   Or the one where Q is a vampire.


**A/N: **It's been beta-read by wonderful Bardlover1 - thank you!

I have a slight vampire problem and a big Ben Whishaw problem. It's only right I've decided to mix them.

The title is from Lipstick On The Glass by Maanam.

* * *

People thought James Bond liked to know everything about people he worked with.

That wasn't true.

He _needed_ to know everything about people he worked with.

He learnt the last - his - M's given name and, consequently, her history; he knew this M before he became a letter - he knew the previous Q like that. He knew when people kept secrets and he knew how to uncover them. It was, after all, his job.

The new Q, the impossibly young, impossibly intelligent, impossibly good at his work quartermaster had a secret, James Bond knew that. He just couldn't seem to learn more.

MI6 didn't care much about secrets inside the organization: they well either important enough to let them stay hidden, or not really secret enough to hide from anybody. Bond wasn't really sure how Q managed to do that - but hide something, something more important than his name (top secret beyond Bond's clearance, seduction and threats; he checked), hide it from everybody - he did.

It was in his eyes, too experienced for his face, his smile, too jagged for his youth, in the easy way he carried himself, both naturally and as if he were acting all the time, in how he sometimes chuckled into Bond's earpiece during night hours of his missions.  
It was in the way Bond simultaneously trusted him with his life and felt uneasy when alone in the same room.

In how Bond was unable to follow him anywhere outside of MI6.  
He could, however, observe him in MI6, and that he did.

Q branch was situated in the basements of the headquarters - regardless of whether said basements were under the old MI6 buildings, or under the temporary HQ, which – under the Tower themselves - were quickly becoming permanent. Basements were Q's, and they strangely fitted him.

There wasn't sunlight in Q Branch, obviously, though nobody cared – computer screens were everywhere, almost constantly on, well lit desks stood under the walls and soft, calming lights took care of the rest of the shadows. No, Q Branch didn't need sun and were quite happy to be hidden like that, in the world of artificial light over which they had complete control.

Bond quickly noticed that Q drank crazy amounts of tea - "A very special blend, very specific - something of an acquired taste", as he told other people who sometimes tried to make it and check what their quartermaster liked so much. But he always offered advice to those disappointed by his refusal to share: "Perhaps the Lady Grey over there, rather gentle, how about that?" In the end, everybody learned that Q drank lots of tea and that his tea was his, not to be touched by anybody else, and nobody really minded; geniuses were allowed their quirks. Q seemed happy in his branch, with his tea, never to be forced into the field and never blinking when he was ordering deaths from behind his screen.

And yet, there was something in this image which gnawed at Bond's senses. Q was... Predatory, for lack of a better word. Unnerving. But he was the best quartermaster Bond had remembered and it was precisely why he couldn't leave the subject.

He decided to actually visit Q instead of just watching him from a distance.

"Double oh seven," Q greeted him without looking up from his screen. "I see you've finally decided to stop stalking me and just talk."

"Maybe I was trying to give you a chance for taking the first step," Bond smirked in reply. "Or..."

Q rolled his eyes, interrupted him.

"I believe I've taken it already. You didn't seem impressed by my complexion."

"Or maybe you are easier for my eye than my wit."

"Careful. You do need basic intelligence for field work, and I'm starting to feel tempted to include in your file a complaint about that," Q replied, still smiling, more lazily now.

"Tempted is good," Bond declared.

"Have you seriously just said that?" Q stared at him.

"Wait till you agree with me," he answered and left, all his walk to the Q Branch door spent ignoring the feeling of Q's eyes on his back and an urge to run away.

Theoretically, there was nothing about the boy to make him feel that way. Yes, Q was a computer genius, but he could hardly kill him hitting him with his laptop. Yet somehow Bond was more on edge than during training sessions with 005.  
Maybe it really was about the absolute lack of information on Q. Maybe he was getting paranoid. Or maybe his instinct was trying to save him one more time.

Q's lips had been pale, and, yes, tempting.

He was sent on a dull mission before he could give Q any more thought, so dull it didn't even require the quartermaster to personally hand him equipment (oh, how he missed the times when gadgets had actually deserved the name), much less a real time guidance. He felt oddly vulnerable without Q in his ear and the notion was so ridiculous he stopped in the middle of the fight and let some thug stuck a knife in his leg. He killed the thug, ignored the wound and finished the mission in one hour.  
His 'gadgets' sadly didn't make it in one piece (apparently his radio wasn't explosion-proof - really, Q Branch should have known better) and he graciously decided that even though Q hadn't deigned to equip him, Bond himself was over such things and would return the wires left of the device on his arrival.

* * *

Q wasn't typing when Bond found him first thing on his arrival. The quartermaster was in a chemistry lab, standing over a small glass full of some strange, mauve liquid, pouring what looked like water but probably wasn't inside. He finished it, took half a step back and observed how flames filled the glass for a moment and then disappeared along with the liquid and the vial.

"Did you like it, double oh seven? I imagine explosions are rather to your taste."

"Bloody alchemy," Bond replied just to be contrary. Q's quiet laugh surprised him.

"You don't even know how close to the truth you are. But if I ever manage to change leaden bullets into gold, I'd let you know."

"I'd be honoured," Bond mocked. Q turned to him. He was even paler in the sharp light of the lab.

"Bond," he whispered suddenly. "You're hurt."

"A scratch."

"A bleeding scratch," Q corrected, looking unbelievably tense all of a sudden. Before Bond managed to ask for – anything, really, Q spoke again. "Go to medical and take care of that ugly, bleed..." he stopped mid-word and paled some more, though it seemed impossible. He took a step back. "Why, exactly, are you here, double oh seven?" he asked in a quiet, but strong voice.

"Why, afraid of a little blood?" Bond mocked, because he was suicidal like that. He ignored the obvious question of just how Q managed to know about a wound that was, first of all, covered by his clothes, and second, few hours old and not bleeding all that much.

"If it'll make you feel better to think that," Q whispered. "If it'll make you leave. Preferably now." He took another step back and was stopped by his desk. There was something enthralling about how his backing off made Bond feel. Q raised his fingers to his lips, as if he was going to be sick, and his whole body was tense, his eyes glimmering behind his glasses. "Leave," he repeated urgently, and Bond hadn't even registered moving before he stood in the corridor again. He didn't try to come back in.

Because Q, more than anything, looked hungry.

Bond set out to find the answers, through written records and spoken knowledge, through old libraries and files stored in M's personal safe.  
There was, perhaps unsurprisingly, nothing. Nothing tangible, at least – he was pretty sure some of the people he talked to weren't entirely honest, but they were civilians, and he wasn't going to torture them. He doubted he'd learn anything anyway - in any case, they seemed more afraid of the answers he was seeking than his wrath. In the end there was an old archive in Cardiff and with one picture inside. It was more of a sketch, actually; old, dated to the 19th century, smudged and blurry, so different from crystal clear digital photos of the new era. There was a pair in it; a man and a woman. The woman wasn't special in any way. The man... If Bond didn't know any better, he'd say it was Q.  
If Bond really knew better, he would say it was Q's grand, maybe great grandfather; but blurry as the sketch might have been, the artist apparently was a skilled one, and there was something about the man's eyes, something dark and lethal and distinctly Q.

Bond photocopied the picture and then had some computer graphic designer who owed him a favour put the woman's face into more modern settings. The effect was surprisingly good and if he didn't know, he'd never guess that it wasn't a real photograph of a young woman standing in Trafalgar Square. Bond admitted to himself that what modern computers could do was rather amazing at times, even though he would rather be killed than say it out loud.

The next day he visited Q Branch and threw the new picture on Q's desk.

"I need you to run facial recognition on her," he said. Q blinked back into real life in place of his code and took a look at the manipulated photograph. He smiled, amused, though his eyes darkened.

"Nice picture," he said. "Pass my congratulations to whoever did that."

"I didn't ask you to comment on its quality," Bond noticed.

"No," Q agreed, still smiling. "But you probably know there won't be any results; not everything is digitized, sad as the notion is."

"Q..." Bond started saying, but the quartermaster laughed suddenly.

"Is it you being jealous, James?" he drawled. Bond felt shivers on his spine. They were an agent and the quartermaster, by definition not on first name terms, and the way Q pronounced his name... He reined himself in. If Q was trying to distract him, he was damn good at it.  
Too damn good for his age, and Bond was trying damn hard not to dwell on old legends, but Q wasn't making it any easier for him. More like daring him to ask.

"Should I be?" Bond quipped.

"Not unless you take me for a necrophile, no." Q smiled again in that strange, slightly unsettling way.

"That'd be a strange fetish for a man afraid of blood," Bond responded, watching Q closely. He shivered minutely and apparently unconsciously licked his lips, then caught himself and run a hand through his hair, looking frustrated.

"I really shouldn't care, seeing what you do with my equipment," he whispered so quietly Bond wasn't sure he heard him right. "But you do trust me... Ask me why I went into computers, Bond," he ordered. The agent raised his eyebrows, but complied.

"Why did you, Q?"

"Because Ada was a lovely girl." He closed his eyes. "Run a facial recognition on that woman yourself, Bond. I know you haven't yet. You wouldn't be here if you had."

"So there will be results."

"There will be results," Q quietly affirmed. "And I'll understand if you run."

Bond left without a word. He'd never run away, but both of them knew it. He went to one of the empty labs, sat in front of a computer, scanned the picture and ran the program. The results came quickly, surprisingly so; and then he just sat there, staring at them.

Why did Q let him find it? There were at least hundreds of ways he could have stopped Bond the second he thought of it, still keeping him alive; and instead Q gave him proof and encouraged him to continue. Why? Maybe they both were going crazy from boredom, Bond thought without a shade of amusement, but if not – _why_?

* * *

He followed Q home that day.  
It was, for once, easy. He went after Q to his flat in darkness - absolute darkness, not a single light on his street or at his home. Q didn't trip once, didn't hesitate on the stairs and opened his lock without any troubles - even though he was quite obviously without glasses (and Bond wasn't sure when Q had ditched his glasses, but he seen him once in Q Branch without them, blindly reaching around until his hand had found them, so he'd assumed they weren't a mere item of fashion). Q went inside and stopped, turned around. Bond was sure he must have been invisible in his dark suit in the night on the other side of the street, but Q somehow looked him straight in the eye.  
"Feel free to come in, Bond. I'd say no one's going to bite you, but, you know how it is... My neighbour's dog is fierce and I'd rather keep my word. How else would I expect you to trust me? Come inside, Bond," he repeated and it didn't sound like a polite invitation any more.  
Bond came inside, just as he did when Q was just a voice in his head and the agent was alone in front of some entrance during his missions. Q closed the door behind them, leaving the key in the lock.

"So, double oh seven - is it common for agents to follow their quartermasters home? That's just asking for an accident," he smiled again, lazily. "We're one of the most valuable MI6 assets, after all. And... One target, just now. One prey." He looked up at Bond, who almost shivered under that gaze. It took all of his training not to, and that was saying something. He still wasn't sure what Q suggested, or rather didn't want to be sure. He became rather curious of that game they were playing.  
Lights flickered on and Bond blinked, accustoming his eyes to the sudden brightness. Q stood mere inches from him, his favourite glasses on. There was actual cold radiating off him.

"Let me explain something. I'm your quartermaster and I care about your missions and your equipment, and, yes, I care about you. That's in the job description, theoretically, but if not for that simple _personal_ fact, you would be dead." It wasn't a threat. It was just simple truth and they both realised it at this point. Q's eyes were darker than ever, and before that Bond had been sure it wasn't possible.

"So. Haemophobia," he said, and watched Q shiver uncomfortably, watched Q's eyes getting darker still.

"Don't," Q managed to say, but there was something in the way he was trying to run away and stay at once, that Bond was almost hypnotized. He wanted to touch him and ground him and – he was suicidal, he'd already established that.

"And Ada?"

"Ada was a lovely girl," Q repeated in a weak voice. "And so very intelligent. She was first in what she did, you see, and she would still be the best. But her father, oh, her father had some interesting friends. Ada's mother probably realised something, judging by the fact she kept her as far away from her father as possible, but... Well, such intelligence. It was _new_. And she heard the stories of those friends, and she believed them. Who else did that? She was special, little Ada. Lovely and so innocent Ada, who knew everything about me from the moment we'd been introduced, but she didn't care and was just happy that I could keep up with her – whether it was about mathematics or something else. And then she died."

Bond read about as much about Ada Lovelace that he understood what Q was saying now, even if it was _ridiculous_. Q looked too young to know that sort of grief, even if he really wasn't. Bond shouldn't be able to tell exactly how Q felt at that moment. Though maybe he didn't know that exactly. They weren't really similar, after all. Bond wasn't good with words, and that was putting it diplomatically, Q probably once had been and traded that for his facility with code. But Q's eyes were dark, so very dark they seemed almost black, and he had a dreamy smile on his face, and those eyes, those black eyes, were looking straight at double oh seven.

Bond didn't really remember coming closer to Q, but he didn't hesitate and did what he did best.

He kissed him.

Q, for a few quick, beautiful moments, kissed him back.

And then threw him away with all his force, so that Bond hit the far wall – much harder than he expected to be possible. He lost his breath and thought that maybe some of his ribs were cracked, but was used to it (albeit rarely because of slim, seemingly delicate boys), so he stood up, not really expecting Q to still be there. He was wrong, apparently. Q was in the same spot as earlier, but he was kneeling, had closed eyes and was trembling ever so slightly. He must have heard him coming closer, because he raised his head a little.

"Don't you dare take another step in my direction, Bond," he said surprisingly clearly. "Or repeat that stupid move. Do you really think I care about your body?"

"Well, yes."

"In that you'd be dead without it, yes," Q corrected himself. "And you'd be dead should I do to you what I wish for."

"For god's sake, you work at MI6, you really shouldn't have that much problem with blood," Bond snapped.

"I've never asked you not to drink a bottle of whiskey. I don't think you'd listen to me if I did. Don't call me out on problems," Q sounded irritated. Bond refused to acknowledge he might have a point. A bottle of whiskey wasn't talking to him.

Though Q didn't drink that metaphorical bottle. Apparently. Though he had to, sometimes... He voiced the thought. Q took his time to answer, stood up and smoothed out his cardigan. He tilted his head and looked as if he was considering something.

"You really don't want to know that," he answered, and then smiled like Bond had never seen him before, fully, for once showing his teeth perfectly well, and Bond couldn't stop himself from staring at two long, sharp fangs. He was past the point of feeling any kind of fear towards Q. He wasn't a field agent because he couldn't adapt to new situations. Granted, this situation gave a whole different meaning to "new", but the point stood.

The point was that Q was his quartermaster. He had had more than enough occasions to have killed Bond, who also might have been slightly suicidal anyway. Q was brilliant and Q was just Q.

"I kill people for a living," Bond felt the need to remind him.

"In a slightly less literal meaning than I do, but it may be a shared trait," Q answered without missing a beat. Bond laughed a little breathlessly. Q focused on that.

"I hurt you," he said.

"No, you didn't."

"And how do you know, you don't notice injuries unless they knock you out and even then just because your perspective shifts," the quartermaster answered in clipped tones. "Come on. I think I may check that." He turned around and went further into his home. Bond shrugged and followed him to what was probably a living room. He wasn't sure what he expected, a collection of medieval artefacts or a computer workshop, but the interior was utterly unremarkable. Very comfortable, sure, but not really different from an average flat. An expensive looking sofa stood in the middle, a tea table in front of it; there was one armchair crowded with pillows next to it and a CD player with a large set of speakers. Surprisingly, it was the only piece of electronics inside. There were also high bookcases against the far wall, but as far as Bond could tell, all of the books were modern.

"I don't have to keep reminders of all the years I've lived. And MI6 has this address." Reading the agents' minds was apparently a requirement for being a quartermaster, though it still was unnerving for Bond.

"How old are you?" he asked with genuine curiosity. Old enough to have known Ada Lovelace personally, it would seem, but it wasn't really an answer.

"And wouldn't you love to know," Q laughed.

"Did M know?"

"Possibly," Q shrugged. "I'd never asked, she'd never told. Strip."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you grown modest now?" Q snapped again. Quick-tempered, was he?

"You've just told me you've no interest whatsoever in my body."

"But I have in your well-being and I did throw you against a wall. Strip, Bond. Just keep your hands to yourself and all should be well," Q sounded certain, but probably wasn't, but Bond had already established he trusted the quartermaster.

"Stripping against the wall can be much more fun," he suggested, smiling in invitation. Q rolled his eyes.

"No, Bond, it can't be. Do I really need to repeat myself?"

Bond sighed, carefully took his suit jacket off and looked around for a hanger.

"Oh, for god's sake..." Q rolled his eyes again and before Bond could react, took the jacket out of his hands, returned to the corridor and hung it there, then stood back in front of Bond. The agent had hardly noticed him moving, his hands only now realising they no longer had a jacket to grab. He filed the new information on Q's abilities for later, opened his shirt and folded it neatly on the armchair, and then, half naked, stood in front of Q. Q, who was staring at the pulse point of his aorta with fascination, his hand half raised there. Bond remembered how quickly Q could really move and forced himself to relax. Q just touched his neck, laid his hand there for a moment and stood still, looking into Bond's eyes. Q's skin was icy cold, but Bond didn't flinch. Finally Q closed his eyes and took an even slower step back.

"Well, let's see if your ribs are all right," he suggested, sounding completely in control once again. "May I?"

"Now you are asking?" Bond mocked.

"May I?" Q repeated. He looked no match for the agent yet he was deadly dangerous. Bond nodded once. He didn't remember the last time he was truly in the company of someone much more lethal than himself and the realisation was oddly refreshing. Q approached him once more, never breathing, and looked at Bond's chest. There were bruises already showing, but aside from that... Q pressed his hand against the lower left part of his agent's chest, just under the heart. Bond's sharp intake of breath was answer enough.  
He'd let Moneypenny shave him with a razor she could have killed him with and he hadn't thought much of it then, seduction aside.  
Now he'd let Q check if Q himself hadn't broken any of his ribs, which basically meant he stood still while a _vampire_ touched his skin. If that wasn't flirting with death, Bond didn't know what else was. Q's touch was sometimes eliciting pain or carefully omitting bruised area to check others and Bond, Bond couldn't decide if he was crazy, or if it was Q, so everything was all right. Q's slow examination of his ribs lasted for a while and Bond never moved, never tried to change a cold, medical touch into something more heated.  
Finally Q nodded and started moving away, and that was when Bond caught him by his wrist. He pulled him closer into a weird embrace. Q was cold even through the layers of his clothes between them. He was also tense, as he hadn't been moments ago.

"Q..."

"I told you, Bond. I'm not interested. Stop forcing that on me."

"You're afraid you'll hurt me," double oh seven stated in a somewhat incredulous voice.

"No, Bond. I'm afraid I'll kill you. I'll kill you just because you are close and your pulse is quick and I already know how your blood smells and..." he trailed off. "Think of your obituary. 'Killed by his quartermaster.' How would it look?"

"Better than my last one, I imagine," Bond smirked, though he obediently released Q. He'd hoped his strange fascination with the quartermaster would pass when he learned what Q was hiding, but no such luck, apparently.

There were still questions. Of course there were. Questions of "how" and about the others, Q's future and history. But Bond doubted he'd get any answers, and so he didn't ask; yet.

"You may get dressed again," Q noted wryly.

"Why, thank you."

Q's eyes followed his movements as he put on his shirt again, carefully buttoning it up. He wasn't even showing off as he sometimes would be, but the look on Q's face as Bond knotted his tie was one of pure fascination. Bond was tempted to ask him for help, but something, maybe the note of actual fear in Q's voice earlier, stopped him.

Q was special, in many ways. He was astonishingly attractive, despite his fashion sense, and terribly intelligent; everything Bond dreamt of and yet, and yet – Bond could live with his refusal to become more _involved_. It was a matter of respect and a feeling of equality that he'd earned early on in their relationship and not many people managed that.

There was also the fact that Bond actually believed him when he said he wasn't interested like that.

He kept quiet and went to collect his jacket.

* * *

Bond was on a mission in southern Asia with Q guiding him through the narrow alleys after a running drug-lord when a bullet hit him in his arm and then a grenade exploded to his left.  
Q's loud, urgent words were the last thing he heard before the darkness took him.

* * *

He woke up to feel a wrist pressed against his lips as he automatically swallowed down something cold and metallic... though weakened, he grabbed for the wrist and tried to force it away.

"Calm down," a familiar voice whispered. "It won't kill you, quite the contrary."

"I don't..."

"It won't kill you," Q repeated and ignored Bond's protesting, put his wrist to the agent's lips again. Then there was the darkness once more.

* * *

The next time he woke up he was in an MI6 hospital, it was half-dark and Q was sitting next to him, typing at his laptop.

"Welcome back," he quipped, noticing that Bond was conscious.

"What did you do?" Bond demanded.

"Nothing much. Your extraordinary resurrection abilities aside, you could have died this time. Poisoned bullets. I never liked them for field work, but your opponents this time had luck with them. You were lucky in that medical evac got to you quickly and actually allowed you to be transferred here instead of kept in that hellish country. Be more careful, please, I'd hate to fill in the paperwork if you died on me. Also, Bond," Q's voice got serious and he put away his computer and looked at the recumbent agent, "I don't share my blood lightly and it's not safe. Don't get used to it."

"Don't do it again," Bond said. Q eyed him in silence for a while.

"Why?"

"Don't."

"I won't, then," Q agreed. "You've still got a sprained ankle, even if it's the worst of your injuries right now. Sleep some more before you attempt and no doubt succeed to flee the hospital. M wants your report, but he doesn't have to know you've woken up yet. You know my address, you can stay a while if you're about to go missing again. Let it be our secret," he smirked. "Sleep."

The voice was almost hypnotic and Bond slept.

A secret sounded good.


End file.
